“No, sir.”
“What is it, then?” Why the hell have you called?
“Leila left her husband. He finally admitted it to me. He’s washed his hands of her.”
This is news.
“I see.”
“He has an idea where she might be, but he wants his palm greased. Wants to know who’s so interested in his wife. Though that’s not what he called her.”
I fight my surging anger. “How much does he want?”
“He said two thousand.”
“He said what?” I shout, losing it. Why didn’t he just admit earlier that Leila had walked out on him? “Well, he could have told us the fucking truth. What’s his number? I need to call him. Welch, this is a real fuckup.”
I glance up, and Ana is standing awkwardly at the entrance to the living room, dressed in jeans and an ugly sweatshirt. She’s all big eyes and tight, pinched face, her suitcase beside her.
“Find her,” I snap, hanging up. I’ll deal with Welch later.
Ana walks over to the sofa, and from her backpack removes the Mac, her phone, and the key to her car. Taking a deep breath, she marches to the kitchen and lays all three items on the counter.
What the hell? She’s returning her things?
She turns to face me, determination clear on her small ashen face. It’s her stubborn look, the one I know so well.
“I need the money that Taylor got for my Beetle.” Her voice is calm but monotone.
“Ana, I don’t want those things—they’re yours.” She can’t do this to me. “Please, take them.”
“No, Christian. I only accepted them under sufferance, and I don’t want them anymore.”
“Ana, be reasonable!”
“I don’t want anything that will remind me of you. I just need the money that Taylor got for my car.” Her voice is devoid of emotion.
She wants to forget me.
“Are you really trying to wound me?”
“No, I’m not. I’m trying to protect myself.”
Of course—she’s trying to protect herself from the monster.
“Please Ana, take that stuff.”
Her lips are so pale.
“Christian, I don’t want to fight—I just need that money.”
Money. It always comes down to the fucking money.
“Will you take a check?” I snarl.
“Yes. I think you’re good for it.”
She wants money, I’ll give her money. I storm into my study, barely holding on to my temper. Sitting at my desk I call Taylor.
“Good morning, Mr. Grey.”
I ignore his greeting. “How much did you get for Ana’s VW?”
“Twelve thousand dollars, sir.”
“That much?” In spite of my bleak mood, I’m surprised.
“It’s a classic,” he says by way of explanation.
“Thanks. Can you take Miss Steele home now?”
“Of course. I’ll be right down.”
I hang up and take out my checkbook from my desk drawer. As I do, I remember my conversation with Welch about Leila’s fucking asshole of a husband.
It’s always about fucking money!
In my anger I double the amount that Taylor got for the death trap and stuff the check into an envelope.
When I return she’s still standing by the kitchen island, lost, almost childlike. I hand her the envelope, my anger evaporating at the sight of her.
“Taylor got a good price…it’s a classic car,” I mumble in apology. “You can ask him. He’ll take you home.” I nod to where Taylor is waiting at the entrance of the living room.
“That’s fine, I can get myself home, thank you.”
No! Accept the ride, Ana. Why does she do this?
“Are you going to defy me at every turn?”
“Why change a habit of a lifetime?” She gives me a blank look.
That’s it in a nutshell—why our arrangement was doomed from the start. She’s just not cut out for this, and deep down, I always knew it. I close my eyes.
I am such a fool.
I try a softer approach, pleading with her.
“Please, Ana. Let Taylor take you home.”
“I’ll get the car, Miss Steele,” Taylor announces with quiet authority and leaves. Maybe she’ll listen to him. She glances around, but he’s already gone down to the basement to fetch the car.
She turns back to me, her eyes wider all of a sudden. And I hold my breath. I really can’t believe she’s going. This is the last time I’ll see her, and she looks so sad. It cuts deep that I’m the one responsible for that look. I take a hesitant step forward; I want to hold her one more time and beg her to stay.
She steps back, and it’s a move that signals all too clearly that she doesn’t want me. I’ve driven her away.
I freeze. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I can’t stay. I know what I want, and you can’t give it to me, and I can’t give you what you need.”
Oh, please, Ana—let me hold you one more time. Smell your sweet, sweet scent. Feel you in my arms. I step toward her again, but she holds up her hands, halting me.
“Don’t—please.” She recoils, panic etched on her face. “I can’t do this.” And she grabs her suitcase and backpack and heads for the foyer. I follow, meek and helpless in her wake, my eyes fixed on her small frame.
In the foyer I call the elevator. I can’t take my eyes off her…her delicate, elfin face, those lips, the way her dark lashes fan out and cast a shadow over her pale, pale cheeks. Words fail me as I try to memorize every detail. I have no dazzling lines, no quick wit, no arrogant commands. I have nothing—nothing but a yawning void inside my chest.